Our Man In Japan
by spoonerdog123
Summary: When a plan goes wrong, Ryou is mistaken for top–notch spy Bakura, and ordered to spy on someone who looks a bit like his only friend, Marik... Well, spying on Marik's the same thing, surely. It's just a few photos, and Marik's really nice - what could possibly go wrong? Everything, as it turns out. Semi AU, Angstshipping in the sense that it involves friendship, Ryou, and Marik.
1. The Marik Incident

**Disclaimer: Spooner doesn't own YGO, which applies to the rest of this series. Pray she doesn't get hold of it.**

**Full Warnings Set: **Guns, angsty teenagers full of hormones are generally angsty, Yami Marik is a warning all on his own, AU, general creepiness, semi-crackfic, violence and some blood in later chapters.**  
**

No shippings were written in this fic, however it may be possible to pretend that Angstshipping is happening in there, if you so wish.

**Reviews: **Non-concrit is much loved. Concrit is even more loved. Flaming is not considered useful, as the author is a perfectionist, who mentally beats herself up about ninety times a day. Non-users are encouraged to review, as no account is needed to do that.

**Our Man In Japan**

'Dont neglect the elucidation of indication. Repeat the procedure let you are craftiness. If at any time your helicopter fly too tip or you become disoriented, quickly let throttle to low. Crashing straight down will damage helicopter.'

_–Found in the English instructions of a Japanese–built remote control helicopter. This mysterious piece is believed to be written in a secret code, the cipher for which has so far eluded cryptologists. _

* * *

The passenger plane came in for a bumpy landing, sparks flying as it hurtled across the tarmac. An American flag of gargantuan size flew proudly across the plane's livery, narrowly missing the Statue of Liberty in its crusade of patriotic fervor. To the right of the flag, an enormous bird of prey aimed its flight path to move to a point just ahead of the plane, the nose of the craft painted a beakish yellow to aid this impression. There was no need for a country name – the whole thing was so very patriotic that one could almost hear the Star Spangled Banner playing in the distance, even without the knowledge that every stewardess and pilot of this airline wore an bandanna emblazoned with the American flag, or that the sandwiches had the stars and strips gracing their tiny cardboard flags.

Doors clicked open, pneumatic valves hissing soft undertones, andhumans spilled out of the craft – mewling children and growling businessmen, a jet–lagged school group losing some of its members to a similar, hyperactive group – in other words, the usual crowd. Since it was New Years Day, there were repentant holidayers, too – most being young couples, intending to reconcile, and currently in the process of having (presumably very reconciling) arguments over how clearly the other person in the relationship should have been handling the planning of this, and why didn't they have a map, and I thought you could speak Japanese beyond saying hello, well I thought _you _could, so on and so forth.

It had not been a very pleasant flight.

A young man of perhaps seventeen trotted somewhere in the centre of the arguments and the general chaos, white hair flowing down his back to clash with the fire–red Hawaiian shirt, a suitcase in one hand. He looked about himself – then took a single step backwards, easily disguising the stagger. Paused to inspect his left shoulder, one eyebrow arching at the sight of the sudden dark stain forming. Brown eyes flickered a moment towards the air traffic control tower, and a corner of the young man's lip twitched in a smile. Then, he simply bent down as though tying a shoelace, melting away into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.

A few minutes later, a young man of perhaps seventeen (pale locks barely visible under the baseball cap, most of his form shielded by a large black trenchcoat, sunglasses) hailed a taxi, settled in the backseat, and proceeded to inform the driver of his desired destination. The driver, being a cautious man, held a hand out behind him for the fee; with a growl of annoyance, the young man pressed American dollar bills into the expectant palm (skin tanned a dark brown, wrinkled and calloused with overuse).

"Now, get going!", the pale teen snapped, his Japanese faintly accented with an American lilt. "I am in a great hurry! I have no time to waste in this airport!"

The hand retreated, notes rolled delicately between the older man's fingers for a long moment. The young man narrowed brown eyes at the back of the headrest. "When do you plan on leaving?"

"One moment, please. I have business matters to attend to... I am sure you understand..." The driver fiddled with his hands–free set, punched in directions on the taxi's inbuilt GPS. The young man fidgeted, yet watched these actions carefully.

After a while, their eyes met in the rear-vision mirror.

"Part of my business is to inform you of my name. I am Rishid."

The pale teen stiffened, eyes widening - _Rishid was his target's right-hand henchman -_

Without further ado, the driver turned around and shot him. This closed business matters for the day, leaving him available to return to his request. He regarded the dying man a moment, then undid his seatbelt, pushed him to the floor of the vehicle.

"I am sorry for any inconvenience my delay may have caused you..."

And so, exactly as earlier commanded, the taxi drove to its requested destination, pausing a moment in front of the hotel.

Then, it continued on its way.

* * *

Ryou Bakura sat upon a king size bed, a large and partially unpacked suitcase on the floor beside him, gazing accusingly at the lavish hotel suite that had recently come into his possession. He certainly hadn't expected such a sudden upgrade on arriving at the place on New Year's Day, but wasn't exactly about to _complain_. Money saved was money earned, after all.

No – the problem with this arrangement, the teen decided, brushing white locks from his brown eyes, was the notes. They seemed to follow him in a never–ending stream; a little film canister in his desk, a tiny CD pressed into his palm when he was buying lunch from the school canteen, a scroll of paper disguised as a cigarette lying on the dressing table when he got home from school. The things were cryptic – notes asking for updates on 'our man', tiny photos showing a wide variety of things, including a blurred card (the word 'WINGEDRA' just barely visible), a circuit diagram, and mysterious pieces of computer code.

Now, he knew that the CIA's seal was no laughing matter. He knew that it had to be a mistake – Ryou was no spy. And he knew from reading far too much spy fiction that people who did that sort of thing generally got themselves killed – he had no interest in impersonating whoever was supposed to be living in this room. So, he did the sensible thing: He ignored the notes.

However, the notes did not ignore him. One day, whilst walking home from school to play a RPG with himself, he found a photo in his jacket pocket, a glossy picture of several black hieroglyphics on a brown background, a blurred yellow card next to it (Ryou could just make out the word WIN, and then something something DR something RA) – and two phrases scrawled on the back of it:

One was 'Pay rise: $50,000 per piece of information.'

And the other was 'Photograph targets'.

* * *

"Guys, could I see your decks?"

The card in the picture was definitely a trading card from a much loved game – if Ryou could get a picture of one of the copies he was sure one of them had to have, it would likely satisfy the CIA, maybe even help them. It'd certainly help him financially – all he had to do was get a picture of a trading card, and he'd be fifty thousand richer.

Now, the only question left was: _How much embarrassment will I put myself through for fifty thousand dollars?_

Eyebrows raised all around the room, one of the gamers (a brunette, never smiling) actually standing from the table, striding past Ryou with a sound of unconcealed disdain. Someone coughed nervously, someone else finally speaking. "That... that would reveal our strategies, wouldn't it?"

Through eyes half–lidded with fear, the pale teen just barely recognized the speaker. That was Yugi Moto, leader of the Games Club, the teenager whose word counted as spoken law when it came to card games.

The blonde next to him – the Vice President, Ryou assumed – shot his superior a look. "You can watch us play, if you like. You'd get to see all our cards, that way."

"No. I... I really don't have time, and you guys change your decks all the time. I... I just wanted to see your rare cards, but–"

"Rare cards?"

Ryou went to consult his shoes, head hanging – and suddenly jerked his neck back up, recognizing that voice. That was the only person who'd ever tried to be friendly to him at this school, the only person who'd ever stood up for him, tossed Ryou's busy–parent background aside, the one person who'd ever said hello or smiled or done partner activities with him. Maybe Marik Ishtar was more of an acquaintance by definition, but he was the only person the white haired teen could ever call a friend at this point in his life. And so, Marik was his friend.

Ryou watched in admiration, as the Egyptian smiled charmingly at each of his fellow club members - he didn't know how Marik could do that. "Rare cards are kinda cool. And he's right, we'll never get to see everyone else's rare cards if we keep changing our decks..."

And when Yugi gave a slight nod, and the others all began sorting out their rare cards onto the desks, the pale teen could have sworn that Marik's eyes were alight with a strange sort of greed –_ no, Marik was generous, not greedy! _

"Come over here!", his friend was calling out to him, and Ryou went, Marik proudly flashing a half–dozen rare cards in his face on arrival. "Check these out!"

And another card - a yellow piece of cardboard, gold lettering - fell onto the desk.

'The Winged Dragon of Ra', the title read, and Ryou shuddered. This was without a doubt, the card the CIA wanted to see.

"What's that?"

Marik looked up at the pale teen, a horrible maliciousness in his eyes as he snatched the card back – _no, Marik was ever so gentle, he'd never do that!_

"What do I have to give you to make sure that you don't say a freaking _word _to anyone about this?" He was cracking his knuckles, glaring, and Ryou shivered.

_Fifty thousand dollars. _

_Mustn't forget the fifty thousand dollars._

"...Uh... A photo?"

Huffing angrily, Marik slapped the card down on the desk – and as soon as the camera clicked, he pounced back on it, slipping the thing into his jacket pocket. "Right, now..."

And his face broke out into a winning smile. "Have you seen Joey's Super Rare foil Red Eyes Black Dragon? It's the best!" He grabbed Ryou's hand, taking him over to the Vice President, introducing them to each other.

And the immense feeling of acceptance Ryou received made him wipe his thoughts clean, as white and blank as Marik's teeth. There was no harm in the Egyptian at all, what had he been thinking?

So, he looked over the cards, and he went home, and sent his picture in, even if he couldn't _quite_ forget what he'd been through to get it. Interestingly, the card now displayed hieroglyphs under the light of the camera flash; hieroglyphs which weren't there before...

* * *

"Marik, could you take off your shirt for me?"

The unusual request made more sense in context, of course – the pale boy had recognized the hieroglyphics on the pictures as being similar to the ones he'd glimpsed in the changerooms, the ones carved into the skin of Marik's tanned back. All he had to do was get a picture of them for the CIA. He'd be a hundred thousand richer, and they'd be none the wiser.

The Egyptian whirled, purple eyes blazing. "And what reason do _you _have for– oh, it's you." Marik's gaze softened almost immediately. "Why d'ya want me to take my shirt off?"

The pale teen forced a smile, holding up the camera. "Erm... It's for a school project?"

The Egyptian's smile didn't _falter_ per se; it simply stagnated into something fake and plastic, a nasty glint appearing in his eyes. "I am in all your classes. There _is _no project." His voice dropped low, eyes narrowing. "Are you hitting on me, Ryou?"

The pale teen blanched even whiter – he'd managed to forget about his reputation for being attracted to males (which he had originally fabricated in order to lose his overly clingy fangirls) in his haste. Admitting such a thing to Marik would likely get him thumped, but not admitting it could make him seem suspicious.

The Egyptian raised an eyebrow, watching the pale teen struggle with coming to a decision. "Well? Or, perhaps..." He took a brisk step towards the other teenager, his voice a malicious hiss. "Maybe you're _spying_ on me, little one..."

Ryou swallowed hard_. _"Um, um – I mean I didn't really want to ask anyway, but, but, but–"

Marik's face broke into a wide grin, the teenager slowly backing Ryou down the empty corridor. "But _what?_"

He couldn't let the Egyptian know that he was a spy; however bad the consequences of lying to him would be. They were nothing, absolutely _nothing_, compared to what the CIA could do to Ryou if his cover was blown. A thousand stories of spies who had put their target on alert whirled through his mind, Marik was his target...

And Marik wasn't right in the head. Marik was advancing on him, Marik grinning dopily as though he'd gone on drugs, Marik–

"But– but I know that you're straight, and it's probably a crush, so I was wondering if maybe a photo…"

He trailed off, ashamed of his own lie, unable to continue saying it. Marik looked down at him, eyes full of paranoia, eyes full of silent accusing–

Ryou practically heard the click of some switch deep inside the Egyptian, as his demeanour abruptly changed; now he was Marik Ishtar once again, a polite, unassuming young man who was ever so calm, the link between Ryou and the other gamers in his school. Marik the generous, Marik the gentle, Marik whose laughter was utterly infectious, Marik the only person in the whole school who would accept the pale teen. "Well, if that's all..."

Calmly removing his shirt, he turned to allow his _friend_ a look at the tattoos on his back.

* * *

Ryou Bakura sat on the bed, now a hundred thousand dollars richer. The CIA were pleased with the photos he had taken of Marik, there was no doubt about that, but...

They had ruined everything for him. If he hadn't tried to take those photos, he wouldn't have seen the ugliness that resided inside his classmate, who was all smiles, so friendly to him – so damn _fake! _It had likely been one big act before he'd tried to get those pictures, sure, but he hadn't been aware of that before the incident. Now he felt sick when he saw that little flash of white teeth from across the classroom, not reassured.

And he had new orders: _Spy on that man. He is your chief priority._

He couldn't believe it. It had to be another case of mistaken identity – because Marik couldn't possibly be the mysterious hacker Mariku, leader of the Rare Hunters. Mariku was the man the CIA was trying to hunt down due to his threatened hacking of the WINGEDRA American nuclear missile, the man who claimed to have a keycard of some sort, a keycard that would put an almighty weapons system at his disposal. The system itself had a password written in a dead language, so that no-one short of a genius could decode it. And Marik... Marik was just a school student, a nice guy, who smiled at Ryou a bit and played card ga-

Cards.

Keycard.

The Winged Dragon of Ra.

The hieroglyphs under the camera flash.

It all made horrible sense, it all clicked into place, and yet... It just couldn't be right, Ryou refused to believe it! Marik was his _friend_, the only friend he'd had at any school, he was so kind, he was...

_...an internationally renowned psychopath.._.

...no, that was Mariku - that was only Marik, if Marik became a raving lunatic, stuck his fingers in a power socket, if Marik wielded an AK 47...

_...and maybe he did, when Ryou wasn't looking._

* * *

It didn't matter how many sick days he had; Marik caught him after only three.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

A little puzzled, Ryou opened the door, then immediately attempted to close it in the Egyptian's face. "Um–"

A sneaker went into the gap between the door and the face, Marik's concerned expression making his stomach flip–flop.

"I heard you were sick, and you seemed really interested in the cards the other day. So, I was wondering if you'd like to have a game of cards."

There was nothing he could do to remove the sneaker, nothing he could do but let Marik in. The Egyptian was more than happy to kick off his shoes, all sweetness and innocence. "I had some spare cards, so I made you a deck."

He was so _nice._

Ryou's stomach did a flip-flop, and he braced himself against the wooden bedpost.

"Marik, I... I don't want to play, okay?" He turned away, head bowed. "Please, just leave me alone."

There was a long silence.

And then, a snicker.

"I never _asked _if you wanted to play, little spy."

Ryou turned, to find Marik_u_ standing right there in the doorway, hair fluffed out in all directions, an AK–47 in his hands.

"I think...", he whispered, madness in his eyes as he crept into the room, "...that you broke the rules."

The pale boy stood frozen before him, as a rabbit does when it sees the ute bearing down on it, a single thought going through his mind. "You're... you're... not Marik."

"Penalty Game."

And there was a sick smile, and the barrel raised and the hammer clicked and all the pale teen could think about was how he wasn't Marik, best friends didn't kill each other, no, no, _no–_

**BANG.**

And Ryou's world exploded.

* * *

**UAB (Unneccessary Author's Babble)**

That quote at the start? I have that remote control helicopter manual lying right next to me; I didn't make the text up.

This first chapter was written as an art trade for Creamyfur on dA. Prompt was to write a Crack/Horror or Crack/Adventure hybrid featuring Ryou, no shipping allowed. Choosing Crack/Horror, I decided to make the thing start off detached and crackish, and slowly devolve into something more disturbing. Unfortunately, my muse got away from me somewhere around the turning point where Ryou began to get Marik-related pictures... and the next thing I knew, I was writing a piece that really is rather angsty. I had to swap categories a few times because of that, and I'm still not sure if it's in the right place (feel free to let me know on that count).

I have plans to continue this piece, however any continuation is a non-trade.


	2. The Problem With Clones

**Advance Warning: **The following chapter contains some imagery of a somewhat bloody nature. It's not Dead Space material, but... well, you've been warned.

**Our Man In Japan, Chapter Two: The Problem With Clones**

* * *

'DNA replication in other Arcade with small stage biotechnolog model (Maple)'

_–The sentence 'Cloning in biotechnology refers to processes used to create copies of DNA fragments (molecular cloning), cells (cell cloning), or organisms', after being put through 35 different internet language translations. _

_It is believed that this process creates a nigh-unbreakable code, understandable only by someone with a degree in the mysterious and little known language of Engrish._

* * *

For a moment, there was a blazing pain in his chest – it was as though every gallon of his blood had turned to boiling acid, and was now eating away at the delicate nerve endings, searing and burning. His vision quickly blazed a dark crimson, his ears popped; he barely heard the sound of the gun, barking out again and again. All he was aware of was how much the corrosive pain increased with every passing second, how his blood was now seeping out through five holes instead of only one.

After some time (a second, a minute, a year, it all felt the same to him in his current state), he heard some far away voice, some shrill noise that reminded him of a somewhat aggressive cockatoo, though he understood that it was not. There was a slight pinprick, almost invisible but for the twitch it forced through his body, and a cool liquid soon dripped lazily into his right arm, its numbing effect so_ slow_, making him spasm in a bizarre combination of pain and pleasure. As soon as he remembered how, he rubbed desperately at his arm to try and spread the numbness to his chest, every part of his fibre wanting nothing more than to be cold, to be without the horrible pain. However, he was soon denied this; he felt someone else gently pry his fingers away from his arm, and move them back across his body and down to his side. The noises came again, high chirpings that annoyed and made him want to slap them away; though of course he couldn't, he was so tired.

Yet he did not sleep, however much he desired the inherent painlessness that horrible feelings racking his body marched slowly on, torturing pleasure and agonizing pain; until he finally remembered to open his mouth if he wished to scream a thousand things, most of them not of a _nice_ nature, the censoring department shivered in fear and _it began–_

"F..."

_–_and then there was nothing; a void of emptiness inside him (possibly due to the copious amount of assorted internal liquids which had recently gained an external status), a perfect stillness outside.

Needless to say, the censoring department cheered, and went off to throw an enormous (but politically correct) party.

And his slow, slow mind spat out one last, confused, terrified thought:

_Marik...u? _

His body finally shut down, jaw hanging slackly open, knees buckling and failing until he knelt, for a second appearing as though an unused marionette, all stiff limbs and drooping joints. He swayed a moment there, before a pitying sneaker hit the small of his back, and he _almost_ gracefully fell onto his face, his skull hitting the polished floor with a sick crunch. The sound was of the sort that made the Egyptian standing over him wince slightly; not that he hadn't seen this before, but seeing someone who trusted him...

_...he didn't trust me that's why he died..._

...lying on the floor...

_...he deserved it he deserved it..._

...it didn't seem right...

_...because he wasn't dead? _

...because people didn't do that to their friends...

_...Oops._

* * *

The Egyptian, after some more pondering, decided that he didn't like looking at Ryou. The tableau before him was both messy and utterly undignified; and to make matters worse, he wasn't entirely sure why he'd done the deed.

Well, that wasn't technically true – it was The Plan, after all, the plan that no–one could possibly know about, and Ryou knew something about it, and this clearly was not acceptable, it was defying logic, and order had to be restored, would be restored through his silencing. So, he was fairly sure as to why he'd shot his friend five times in the chest.

He just wasn't quite so sure as to why he'd injected Ryou with something to slow his blood flow, keep him alive.

Though, that wasn't technically true either – Ryou's survival was, after all, integral to The Plan.

But there was something else, something he couldn't quite describe, something outside of that logic. It...

...was Ryou. There was something about him, some word that made him closer than acquaintance, but further away than family.

And just for an instant, Marik Ishtar stood quietly, trying to remember the word.

Then his hair spiked back upwards, and he immediately forgot all about that.

The Plan was all that mattered.

* * *

A young man came hurtling down the stairs and into the hotel lobby, carrying an unconscious teenager in his arms, chest covered with the former's denim jacket. He was absolutely hysterical, yelling that his friend had collapsed in the room during his visit, and he knew that poor Kajiki (1) had diabetes, and why hadn't anyone made sure that there were jelly beans in the place?

The staff, concerned and apologetic, assured the young man – who eventually introduced himself as Namu – that they would have jelly beans placed in every hotel room from now on. They helped him as best they could, lending him a phone so that he could call an ambulance. Even when no ambulance actually appeared (a pizza parlour received a rather intriguing call), and Namu began to fret that it might never arrive, they continued to try and help him – the manager even lent the Egyptian his car keys, so that Namu could drive his friend to the hospital...

...though of course, he would later regret that.

Not only did he never get the car back, but a horde of suited men claiming to be from the CIA broke down his door and raided his house, utterly spoiling the romantic dinner he had been hoping to have with his secretary.

* * *

Ryou Bakura was dead, or at least that was what he assumed himself to be. After all, he'd been shot in the chest five times by a psychopath. His body was numb yet freezing cold somehow, his hearing gone, his view of the world a black void–

–though that bit was probably because he hadn't opened his eyes.

_Silly me._

After some chiding himself, he soon found that colours still swirled in his vision (though his eyelids felt ever so heavy, and he could only open his eyes a little as a result). And from the way his world continuously detonated in a kaleidoscope of reds and yellows, dots of black peppering the boy's hallucinations, Ryou could only conclude that he was _not_, as previously thought, dead.

Drifting through the haze, he wondered why he had ever thought that he was deceased; his most recent memories did not indicate why. There had been a dear little crimson rectangle, then some barking, a bit like a dog, only more of a metal – ah, a machine–dog! After that, he remembered some acid in his chest – then more barking, and a cockatoo screaming, and a really cold feeling, and a... a word, if he thought long and hard about it, there had been a word – ah, his mouth remembered it...

"Ma... r..."

_Marik._

And there was something else at the end, but he wasn't quite sure what. Therefore, he simply curled around that word, it was something familiar at least. And it had a nice sort of sound to it, a lovely warm 'rrrrr', even if the purr was cut off a little by the 'k'...

_Marik!_

His thoughts suddenly swam together, organized, memories flooding into his addled brain in a sweet moment of clarity.

_Why did you kill... not kill... try to kill... capture... whatever you were doing... why..._

It didn't matter, he already knew the answer.

_A hundred thousand dollars._

All his fault. It might have been Marik who had shot him, but it was Ryou who had pried; he shouldn't have, he knew better than that. It had been _his _fault that Marik had turned on him, his fault that the Egyptian had stopped trusting him.

He didn't deserve a friend after this. He didn't even deserve to have a psychopathic criminal as a frien–

_–_that wasn't Marik. He told himself that a few times – _Mariku is not Marik, Mariku is not Marik, Mariku is not Marik _– but he couldn't quite believe it. After all, if Mariku wasn't Marik, then just who was Marik? And who was Mariku? And...

Something hit him around then: He wasn't dead. Of course, he already knew this, but now was only when his jumpy thoughts actually took hold of the matter, and they were certainly not amused by what they found.

The issue he had with this was that this declaration made little sense; he'd been shot in the chest multiple times. Marik hadn't wanted him alive, and he really shouldn't have been after taking an injury like that–

Wait.

Marik_u _hadn't wanted him alive.

Marik... possibly. Hope rose; surely it hadn't been Marik who had shot him. And he remembered the cool numbness, some sort of an injection; so _someone_ had to have jabbed him with the needle.

His hope withered just as quickly as it had come; what if Mariku simply wanted Ryou alive? Did he wish to torture Ryou for information on the CIA? Or was he some sort of scientist in addition to his hacking skills; perhaps he wished to perform some sort of test? An experiment? The pale boy shivered; his very first movement to register in the outside world. The colours were getting lighter and brighter now, the sedatives must have been wearing off – he wondered if maybe he was looking at a ceiling, tried to open his eyes further–

Someone pushed his eyelids back down. And then there was a rough feeling at his shoulder, perhaps a strap tightening, and then a hot pinprick and a liquid coolness, and he was falling back into nothingness.

* * *

"Happy New Year, sir. My greeting comes five days late, of course, but it is customary to wish such a thing when the recipient is conscious."

"Spare me the theatrics." The young man pushed himself upwards as best he could against the soft seat of the taxi, ignoring the pain in his legs in order to look at the driver with an expression that could have curdled a sickly sweet strawberry milkshake. A slight flicker of amusement passed over Rishid's face; then it was gone, the older man seemingly knowing better than to snicker at the latter's misfortune.

"I take it that you were looking for Master Mariku, sir."

"And _I _take it that you are his slave," the young man replied, his voice perfectly even.

The driver barely flinched at the insult, his stare unblinking. "You would know much about slavery. You are from the CIA, are you not?"

A short silence, during which the young man glared accusingly at his bandages.

"I have your possessions here with me, sir. Master Mariku has shown me your record – taken directly from the database. You are indeed an accomplished agent... 'Dark' Bakura." (2)

Bakura smiled for the first time since their meeting, though it was really more of a baring of teeth than anything else. "Your master hacked into the Central Intelligence Agency?"

He needed no answer, of course, and Rishid made this known with a raised eyebrow and a slight nod. The pale teen grinned even wider.

"You're done. I'm their best agent; they've been keeping me under close watch. And trust me, they are more powerful than anything you can possibly handle. They will track me down – actually, they likely already have. Now I've heard it from you, I'm all the evidence they'll need – alive _or _dead."

Rishid's gaze went almost pitying. "Do you honestly believe that they will come to look for you?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "They hold you in high regard, but they now have you confused with another. Someone who looks just like you. Someone who _is _you. A better you. A you who will tell the CIA nothing, only what he's read in those spy books he likes so much. A you who will be so bad at missions that the agency will relegate him to a job at their offices. A you who will tell us everything."

Brown eyes narrowed, as the young man searched the hitman's body language to see if he told the truth. "The chances of that are–"

"A hundred percent, Mr. Bakura. A hundred percent, with the right technology." Knowing that he had effectively won this battle of wits, Rishid turned back to the wheel of the taxi, almost dismissively flicking a wallet over his shoulder. Twenty different photographs spilled out onto the seat, and Bakura stared in shock. There he was, indistinguishable from the agent but for the lack of hair gel in his teenage years, and the fact that he was smiling happily in every picture.

With a sigh, the agent dragged himself into a sitting position as the taxi began to move, grunting each time he moved his legs. "I take it that you're planning on eliminating me, so that your precious Wonderboy will never be found out?"

"Then I take it that you plan to escape, Mr. Bakura."

"First opportunity I get."

"You will not get one. I think you will instead find that Master Mariku has his own plans concerning you and Ryou–"

"_Ryou?! _You called that wimp _Ryou?_"

"Ryou Bakura. In Japan, most answer to their last name; so he will answer properly to Bakura. For reasons of clarity, my master and I have called him Ryou."

Bakura seethed. "Ryou... is the _least American name I have ever heard in my life._"

"You're hardly American yourself, Mr. Bakura. A semi–permanent visa which forces you into spying to stay in America _hardly _counts."

The young man opened his mouth, then closed it again.

And they drove on in silence.

* * *

**Notes:**

1. This only makes sense if you're familiar with either the YGO manga or the Japanese anime. Mako Tsunami (the freaky fish guy) in the anime is commonly known as Kajiki in the manga – but his full name is _Ryou_ta Kajiki.

2. 'Dark Bakura' is a literal translation of Yami Bakura.

* * *

**UAB**

Silly fact: There's a large number of very deliberate references to the manga canon in this mini-series, some more obscure than others. Marik's Winged Dragon of Ra card being key to his hacking of the WINGEDRA missile would be a good example of an obvious one, whilst the small detail of Ryou being shot in the chest region five times is a not-so-obvious reference to his stabbing by the Millennium Ring (which has five spikes).

On another note... I've no bloody clue where to categorize this thing. There's just too many categories which fit it - Adventure, Crime, Suspense, Mystery, Angst, Friendship, the list goes on - and I honestly don't know which fit this one best. Little outside advice here, anyone?


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